


That Day

by Gyakugire



Category: Death Note
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gore, M/M, idk - Freeform, pre/post explosion, these poor sweet souls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 00:02:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6172033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gyakugire/pseuds/Gyakugire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Matt doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, so he does what Mello asks. He grabs their bottle of bourbon from the kitchen cabinet, pours a glass, takes a swig of the damned thing himself, and thinks. He’s a Wammy kid, the fuck, he can do this he can he can he can he fucking has to."</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mihaelgayhl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mihaelgayhl/gifts).



Matt catches him by the wrist, because he almost misses it, it almost slips right _fucking by him._ Mello’s tense, back straight, and these moods are the worst, the most difficult to deal with. He doesn’t turn when Matt pulls, doesn’t give any indication that the redhead is even there. He’s in that zone, that state that _no one_ can shake him out of.

Yeah, this is a bad one. It’s always before serious jobs, messy jobs, dangerous jobs.

How can this shit be fucking worth it?

“Where are you going?”

“Work.” Mello’s jaw’s set tight, defiant. He sees where the blond’s eyes are, glued to the detonator on the coffee table. All night, Matt spent getting it to the point functioning. Wires, screws, safety goggles “just in case”. Hours and hours he would have taken back if he knew _who_ would be holding onto it.

“Stay home.” 

“I can’t.” 

“Mels, you said cops had the place on record!”

The blond’s shrugging his coat off—if the apartment’s too damned hot for it, then the warehouse absolutely will be.

“It’ll be fine. We’ve got a plan worked out.”

“And what in _bloody hell_ is the plan?” Matt sputters, because to him, all he sees is his lover and a fucking suicide mission.

“It’s not your business.”

“Mels, you’re going to get _hurt_.” _Hurt_. It’s pathetic. Like _hurt_ can cover a damned bit of what’s going to happen.

And the blond laughs. It’s empty, sickening, and he looks at Matt with blank, wide eyes and closed ears. “I get hurt all the time. Comes with the job, remember?” 

He’s shutting him out shutting him the fuck out. 

_Mels. Mello. Mello mels m e l  s mihael don’t fucking do this mihael mels fuck please please please_

“No. This isn’t a joke, Mels, you’re going to get hurt real bad, I’m not stupid, I can tell you’re gonna do something reckless and I know you don’t want to hear it but it’s not _fucking worth it_.”

Glassy eyes, forced smiles, Mello lets him cling onto him, nails digging into his shoulders, as if that’ll drag him closer, save him, help him, _protect him_.

“I’ll see you tonight, Matty.”

“I’m going with you.” _Please don’t leave me here don’t do this you’re going to get hurt you’re going to die this is going to be the one that does you in don’t be fucking stupid please please please please please_

“You’re not.”

There’s hands in his hair, and Matt’s fucking huge against him, smothering, choking, forcing his face into his shoulder, because after all, Mello’s just that much taller, that much out of reach. “Mels, _please,_ just listen to me this _one time_.”

Matt’s voice wavers, and for a second, so does Mello’s resolution, because the redhead’s _right_ , he’s always _right_ , and he can see right through him and this whole plan and what he’s about to fucking do. “Stop it.”

“Either you stay home, or I’m going with you.” _please please plea s e  e ple a se_

Mello’s tearing away from him, and Matt’s tugging him back in. His fingernails are knives, clinging to his skin, to his clothing, burning, stinging, like barbs in a soldier’s limb. “You’re. Not. Coming.” 

And Matt grabs harder, pulls him in again so that they’re crushed together, one big person, a mix of leather and stripes, chocolate and cigarettes. “You walk out that door and I’m following right behind you.”  
  
“Like hell you are. Sit the fuck down and keep yourself busy until I get back.”

“ _No_. Please, Mihael—“

“ _Stop it!_ ”

“You always do the same bloody thing! You do this stupid shit and you leave me behind like—“

“Because our _numbers are the fucking same!”_

Mello’s anger flips like a switch. He’s volatile, hardly sane, but he _never_ screams. So when he pushes Matt back, standing alone, trembling, livid, all Matt sees is fear.

That’s worse than any anger Mello could throw at him.

Because Mello fucking _knows_. He _knows_ what he’s getting himself into.

“I don’t give a _shit_ about that, you’re gonna get _hurt_ , Mels.” He’s a broken record now, and he’s sure there’s tears on his face because his eyes fucking sting, and he feels like an idiot because he knows Mello’s not listening, that Mello’s already made up his mind and there’s nothing he can do to change it. “L’s not worth this!”

Mello’s ignoring him now, and there’s finality in the way Mello marches up to him. In the way he brushes his lips over Matt’s far too tender to be comforting. In the way he slips away before the redhead can grab on again, snatching the detonator off coffee table and the gas mask from the back of the door. 

“Keep your phone on, Matt.”  


“Yeah.”

The door opens, shuts, and there’s silence, terror, nightmares. He yells, kicks over the coffee table, screeches, pulls at his own hair and paces around the apartment until he tires himself out, gasping for breaths that slip down his throat but refuse to settle in his lungs.

~~

At some point, Matt falls asleep. It has to be past midnight, but he hasn’t looked at a clock in God knows how long, and all he knows is that his nose is stinging and he’s jerking up off the couch, game still on, blinking dully from the ground where he likely dropped it before dozing off. 

“Goddamnit, what in the bloody hell?” It’s Mello, it has to be, and it doesn’t register _just_ what’s making his nose sting and his insides churn until he’s at the bathroom door.

Burning.

Smoke.

 _Flesh_. 

“Mels?” 

“ _Get the fuck out!_ ” Strangled coughing, crying melting sobbing dying. “ _Matt_ , _get_ —“ interrupted by a wet cough followed by vomit. 

Matt doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, so he does what Mello asks. He grabs their bottle of bourbon from the kitchen cabinet, pours a glass, takes a swig of the damned thing himself, and thinks. He’s a Wammy kid, the fuck, he can do this he can he can he can he fucking has to.

The sobs, piercing, shrieking, send chills through Matt’s body, loathing frightening _disgusting_.

“Mels?” He’s screaming, but it’s all silent. He sees red, glistening, singed, bloodied flesh, stained with soot, clothing, ash, like Mello had peeled his vest right off of it. Then he takes a closer look.

The vest is fucking _fused into his fucking skin_. Oh, God, oh god oh god oh god the screeches the sobbing, Mello’s choking out noises neither of them knew were human, and he’s on the ground, good side pressed to the cool surface of the bathtub, hand in his hair, shaking like a dying fucking animal.

“ _I’m going to kill myself I can’t fucking do this_!” Matt’s eyes dart over his frame, and the Beretta is nowhere in sight, so he can relax for a moment, for just a second.

Salt water stings burnt flesh, and Matt’s on the ground with him, mind on autopilot.  

He shoves the glass of bourbon into Mello’s good hand. “Drink it. It’ll help. I think.”

“Will it?” 

“I don’t fucking _know_.”

But Mello, with trembling hands, spills most of it on himself, trying to bring the damned thing up to his lips. The tears, the wails, the whimpers, none of it stops, and it digs into Matt’s gut.

He needs to get the leather off of him.

“Please, love, please, please, please, it’s going to be okay, don’t cry, don’t cry,” Matt begs, but he knows that, of all things, is a fucking stupid thing to say, a stupid thing to ask for. With gentle fingers, he unzips what’s left of Mello’s vest, trying to get his hand underneath the fabric as best as he can. “Alright, I’m gonna do this in one pull, okay? So it doesn’t hurt as bad, I’m gonna try and do it quick, okay, Mels?”

He doesn’t get a verbal response, just a choked sob and a shaky nod. He rips too hard, he’s sure, and he’s positive the top layer of Mello’s skin came with it. The leather rips off his body like velcro, showing the full extent of damage. Burns, blisters, blood, blood, fucking blood, curled, burnt flesh. Oh, god, god, he turns away from Mello, his dinner coming up in one fluid motion, and he flushes, rinses with vodka, and forces himself back to work.

Mello’s body writhes beneath the alcohol swabs, burning, dying, screaming, wailing. It crawls under his skin, makes him shiver and gag and want to fucking scream all over again. 

“ _Matt_. _Matt stop let me fucking_ die _oh god god g o d fuck o h m y go d.”_ There’s no control left. Mello’s body thrashes, doesn’t know _what the fuck to do_ , and Matt tries to clean him up, tries to get all of the fucking _shit_ off of him. 

“Mels, shh. Mels, _please_ ,” Matt begs, forcing the singed leather from his flesh as quickly as it can. It tears, it springs new blood, but it has to come off before it gets worse, before infection spreads, but Mello wails beneath him, sobbing like a dead man, helpless, hopeless, and it makes Matts chest twist. 

He forces Mello to keep taking steady sips of the bourbon. Painkillers aren’t gonna do shit, he can’t get an IV, so maybe alcohol’ll help numb him out. He hisses, writhes beneath swipes from antibacterial swabs, wails even when bandages finally make it to his skin, meant to cool, comfort, and still, he sniffles, good eye beet fucking red, lips quivering without any intention of stopping. He hardly seems drunk, though he’s had a decent amount, and Matt takes him with shaky hands into the  bedroom, leading, gentle, gentle, gentle.

The blond brings the alcohol with him, cradling it and sipping at it while he sits in bed, hardly tired, to pained to sleep, so Matt sits with him, taking a sip whenever the bottle’s offered to him.

“It hurts,” Mello whispers through lips dampened with alcohol, and Matt nods, taking the bottle from his hands and draining another mouthful. 

“But you’re alive,” Matt breathes out, and Mello scoffs.

“Yeah, I’m alive. Like that’s doing me any fucking good.”

Matt doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything at all, not until Mello curls up beside him, good side pressed against the sheets. The blankets can’t go past his hips, and thank God it’s too damned hot in this shithole of an apartment. He slides down so that Mello’s breaths tickle his face, and he can stare at that glassy, watering, still red eye. “I’m glad.”

“Why?” His words are heavy in his mouth, and they have to be forced off of his tongue, tingling from the alcohol.

“I’m glad that you came home.”

“I told you I would.”

He tries to smile. “Yeah.”

“Matt, you’re crying.”

“I’m not,” the redhead chokes out, but he knows that’s bullshit, because his face is streaking with tears and he’s held himself together for this long, so why slip up now? It’s quiet, it’d be impossible to notice if the lights were off, but he knows neither of them are going to get any sleep tonight, so why bother?

“ _Matt_.”

“Sorry.”

Mello sighs, but it comes out uneven, shaky, trembling. “I’m not mad.” He’s heavy, he’s throbbing, he’s fucking dying.

“Can I kiss you?” 

The blond wants to laugh because he’s drunk, and he can’t imagine why Matt would want to kiss him when he’s in this state, disgusting, dying, bleeding, crying. But his lips part, and he’s whispering a shaky “Yeah,” letting the other boy inch closer to him. 

Matt’s lips are upon his, gentle, comforting, sloppy, and it’s a shitty kiss because Matt’s still crying his eyes out, and his hands are shaking against Mello’s body. He’s a wreck, he’s gasping between kisses, and he’s smothering the blond, but said boy doesn’t do a damned thing, just tries to kiss back. He lets Matt smother him, cradle him, grasp onto the parts of him that are still whole.

Nails against his flesh like barbs in a soldier’s limbs. He shudders against the touches, and against Matt, he can’t breathe, he can’t think. His body screams, begs for relief, but all he’s got is the touch of this boy and the bottle of bourbon sitting beside him.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by one of the many great headcanons by MihaelGayhl that you can read here: mihaelgayhl.tumblr.com
> 
> Also feel free to check out my tumblr/say hi at http://hokusoemu.tumblr.com/ :0


End file.
